Oil And Energon
by Seien24
Summary: Ratchet and Prowl may be as different as two mechs can be on the outside, but their responsibility for the lives of the Autobots gives them all the mutual understanding they need. RatchetxProwl slash


**Name: **Oil And Energon  
**Rating: **R for sexual relations between mechanical beings  
**Wordcount: **1,203 words  
**Pairing: **RatchetxProwl  
**Author's Notes: **This is for Okamichan who was so delighted when three days of watching the Crime and Investigation Network made me want to write something with Prowl and hand molesting in it. Not that the Crime Channel has much to do with hand molesting, so I guess that's just me...

--

Ratchet and Prowl were not, at first sight, two especially similar mechs. Ratchet was irritable, even downright moody at times. Albeit skilled without equal, the medic was mostly ruled by his emotions. Prowl, in direct contrast, was reserved to the point of being icy. Emotions always coming second, he made his every decision on reason and reason alone. Ratchet and Prowl, at first sight, were as different as oil and energon.

There was one similarity. Of all the Autobots, Prowl and Ratchet were the ones that took their work most seriously. Their responses to problems, although with absolutely opposite motivation, were the same - work until the problem is solved. No mechanism in the Ark would ever be seen to lose recharge or forget to refuel over their work but for Ratchet and Prowl. The medic's refusal to pause repairs or to let any of the other competent scientists take over from him were legend, and it was a well known fact that when a battle was being planned, Prowl would suddenly deviate from his rigid schedule and sit up in his office for solar cycles on end, calculating scenarios and probabilities until he could deliver a watertight plan of attack.

The result of this single, all-pervasive similarity was a strange kind of kinship, an understanding of each other's devotion to their duty no matter their individual temperaments. Regardless of their methods, they both knew that their reason for such a level of devotion was the same: responsibility for the lives of their comrades. It was Prowl's responsibility to develop strategies that would save his comrades from harm, and when something went wrong, it was Ratchet's responsibility to pick up the pieces. If either of them did their jobs sloppily, the result was ultimately the same: the termination of an Autobot. The termination of a friend.

So when Bluestreak was caught from behind by a parting shot from a Decepticon rifle, a lucky hit, Prowl felt his spark twist with guilt. He watched Bluestreak go down, both doorwings twisted, one blown off and the other hanging by a few cables, and a hole in his back reaching deep enough to scorch his spark chamber - and yes, Prowl realised with a wave of nausea, a part of the brownish-yellow orb was actually visible through the damage to the young gunner's plating - and he knew that it was at his order that Bluestreak had had that position, and had he directed him elsewhere, perhaps he would not have been hit... Nothing showed on Prowl's face, his doorwings barely even drooped, but the tactician felt as though a hand had gripped his spark and squeezed. He looked away, because there was nothing else he could do.

Bluestreak had, of course, been taken to Ratchet, and that was nearly two solar cycles ago. Prowl had recharged and refueled and was back in his office, running precisely on schedule, and when the door to his office opened and Ratchet walked in without even knocking, the tactician merely looked up, set down his datapad and folded his hands. He knew that now Ratchet had left the medbay, there could be only two possibilities; Bluestreak was stable, or he was dead. Prowl's own desperation for the former didn't show a mite on the outside - his voice was as calm as his appearance.

"Ratchet. What can I do for you?"

Ratchet knew Prowl's manner, and didn't take offense at the clipped, formal tone. He sat down on the chaise-longue that Prowl never used and buried his face in his hands.

"He's stable," he muttered, and Prowl felt relief wash over him. He was not accountable for the loss of Bluestreak's life. Neither was Ratchet. A few nano-kliks of silence passed before Prowl calmly pushed his chair back and stood, walking over to Ratchet and sitting down beside him, running a hand along the medic's back.

The two of them had developed a strange dynamic over the stellar cycles, one which worked for them. They weren't bonded, and would never do so. They weren't mates. Even describing them as lovers would have been erroneous. Neither mech could really have taken a lover. Having their lives of their friends in their hands was burden enough; to have the fate of a beloved one would have been too much. Despite the polarity of their characters, there was an empathy between them that neither could have had from any other Transformer. They both knew it, and discussed it no further.

Prowl coaxed Ratchet's hands away from his face, pulled them into his lap. Ratchet shuddered at the touch, optics flickering.

"Prowl..."

Prowl reached up and pressed one finger to Ratchet's lips. "Shh. Be calm, Ratchet."

The medic nodded dumbly, tiredly, and offlined his optics with a quiet moan as Prowl's hands returned to his own, still resting on the tactician's thighs.

Prowl, ever meticulous, worked his way over Ratchet's hands without missing an inch, strengthening the energy fields in his own hands to stimulate the pleasure sensors beneath the red plating. He massaged every joint of every finger, every section of the palm, treating each hand with equal care and attention to detail. It left Ratchet a panting, shaking mess, the medic's accumulated exhaustion putting him in no position to be anything but totally overcome by the mind numbing pleasure. The stress and tension, the fear that had built up from all those moments when it looked like Bluestreak might not make it, drained from Ratchet's spark and left him with nothing but the exquisite pleasure from Prowl's careful ministrations.

Prowl raised one red hand to his mouth, and slid his glossa along the length of one of Ratchet's fingers.

Ratchet was unprepared for just how erotic it was to see Prowl, optics dimmed and back perfectly straight, holding the medic's wrist in both flawlessly polished white hands, lips parted unexpectedly sensually, running his glossa slowly and firmly across the joints of Ratchet's forefinger and sucking liightly at the fingertip before pulling away. The medic overloaded on the spot with a hoarse cry, in part from the sensation and in part from the sight of the cold, detached tactician performing an act so completely wanton.

Prowl arranged Ratchet more comfortably on the chaise-longue, still strict and serious-faced even as he soothed the medic, and for once Ratchet didn't fight him, slipping inexorably into unconsciousness. Prowl stood a moment, examining the other mech for just a few seconds before bending down and allowing himself the indulgence of pressing a soft kiss to Ratchet's chevron. The corners of the medic's mouth twitched upwards in a half-conscious smile and Prowl cupped Ratchet's cheek in his hand.

"Recharge, Ratchet," he said sternly. "I'll be here for the rest of the cycle."

Ratchet heard Prowl returning to his desk and picking up his datapad before he finally lost consciousness after two solar cycles - his last thought was that Prowl had better still be here when he awoke. He had a favour to repay.


End file.
